


A Touch of Irrigo

by r_lee



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 13:59:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2735171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_lee/pseuds/r_lee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The walls speak in whispers. It's almost enough to drive you mad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Touch of Irrigo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [100indecisions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/100indecisions/gifts).



You know you can’t stay here in the Flit, but you also know you can never truly leave. It's your favorite part of the city, despite its inherent dangers. As if a demonstration of its perils is necessary, an indistinct figure chucks a rat on a string at you from above. By the time you pinpoint where your latest gift came from, the only thing left of your assailant is a shadow, a rough laugh, and the flash of a dirty yellow braid trailing down the urchin’s back as she flees. If you were prone to indignation you’d make it your duty to track down the child who pelted you with a dead creature, but you left your high moral ground back in a different world. You’re a denizen of the Neath now. You pick up the rat and examine it. The girl who lobbed it at you might be long gone, but she took care to wrap the rat carefully in a scrap of silk. 

Because you’ve grown to realize that nothing here happens accidentally, you unwrap the dead creature. The rat is just that, a rather dead rat. It goes to the grey short-haired cat sniffing the gutter.

“Why, thank you,” it says, licking its unnervingly mobile lips. “I was beginning to wonder where my supper would come from today.” She (you’re not quite certain why you think the cat is a she, other than the delicate set of its jaw) bites the head off the rat, swallowing with feral glee. The rest of the rat corpse follows suit, disappearing efficiently into that sharp-toothed maw. It’s difficult to tear your glance away from the sight, but the potential of finding something written inside the stained silk proves to be a strong lure. 

You aren’t disappointed. The words on it prove to be simple instructions. _Blind Helmsman, twenty minutes._

You don’t recognize the handwriting, which is unsurprising. Most of the people you know—or those who wish to know you—are hesitant to commit much of anything to writing. Oh, they’ll let themselves be interviewed for the press; they love the notoriety. But those stories are someone else’s words, not necessarily their own, and newspaper articles can always be refuted. Even unsigned, little notes carry more weight here. The cat stops licking her tail long enough to motion you forward. Once you’ve knelt at her side, she rests both paws on your shoulders so she might whisper into your ear.

The cats of the Neath love to gossip and share secrets. This one is no exception. “The walls talk,” she says, her breath perfumed by dead rat and the faintest hint of prisoner’s honey. 

“Tell me something I don’t know.” The words tumble out easily and for a moment, you wonder how much of a sense of humor this feline has. 

She rubs her head against your ear and in a fit of cellular memory the scar on your forearm aches but no, the one who left the tooth marks there was a different beast at a different time. “I just did,” the cat tells you and in that way all cats have, she springs back and walks off, her tail tracing an invisible question mark in the air. As she takes her leave you steady yourself against the wall and, for the first time, hear—no, _feel_ —the walls whispering. Try as you might, you can’t make out the words.

It appears the cat was on to something. You’ve only got twenty minutes to get to The Blind Helmsman, but promise to return and unravel that particular mystery as soon as time permits. You’ll probably need help.

*

Wolfstack Docks is a place you’ve learned to despise as well as respect. It smells of the Unterzee, of sweat and stale liquor. It reeks of missed opportunity. As you make your way into The Blind Helmsman the patrons press against you. You, however, are no fool and keep your valuables out of reach, secure in the hidden pockets inside your almost-respectable gown of red velvet. Whatever baubles you have in your frock coat’s outer pockets are dispensable, mere distractions to keep the thieves and Jacks and zailors and pickpockets at bay. In the Neath, you learn to be prepared or you learn to die. Sometimes you have to do both, but you’d rather not end up with the Drownies tonight.

You are prepared for almost anything. The air around you hums with the vibrancy you’ve come to associate with the docks. Everyone here is on the verge of some sort of venture, or perhaps adventure, and tension is high. You make your way past the sounds of drunken zailors betting at the sorrow-spider pits and catch the eye of the barkeep, whose name you know but never use, out of respect for his past. He nods, keeping one eye on you and the other on a particularly bureaucratic-looking Naval Officer. All three of you wear at least one layer of misdirection, that much is certain.

“Good evening,” you say simply.

The barkeep pretends to look away. “Rough night in here for a lady.”

You flash him a small smile, then nod to the Naval Officer. He looks you up and down with something like officially-sanctioned disinterest written across his face. When he stands, his eyes linger on you a moment too long; you reach into your pocket for the prison shiv you’ve carried since New Newgate. It’s small, but it’s both sharp and effective.

As abruptly as the staring began, the officer’s eyes shift away. “Milady,” he bows, and rests a hand against yours. Were the choice yours you would never let a stranger touch you in such a familiar way, at least not in a crowded public house. But here you have no choice because the barkeep, whose name you still refuse to utter, tilts his head ever so slightly in the Naval Officer’s direction. You read cues well.

“Fancy meeting you here.” Your voice is low and even. That you’ve never laid eyes on this man before is irrelevant. What matters now is that you take his hand into yours until you feel the note wedged against your palm. When you glance down, you see the edge of ink on his wrist peeking out from the sleeve of his uniform. It looks like a partial map, but you don’t have the time to decipher it further.

“Pressing business,” he says, letting go of your hand. Swiftly, you tuck the note away. You know better than to follow a courier too eagerly, particularly here by the docks, so you bide your time with a small glass of Amanita sherry. It’s not your favorite drink but at the very least it warms you. As you sip it, a well-dressed fellow across the room grins, sets down a stack of paperwork, and toasts you with his own glass. His eyes glow red.

Although you’ve dallied with them in the past (and quite profitably at that), you’ve no time for devils tonight. You make a show of pressing a small fistful of ostentatious diamonds into the barkeep’s hand, both by way of thanking him for his assistance and as a way of ensuring that the devil across the way knows you’re not in the market for his attention. _Pity,_ he mouths as he gives you a dangerous grin, his teeth glinting with flashes of nevercold brass. During the diversion caused by a particularly potent roar from the sorrow-spider pits, you steal your way out of The Blind Helmsman, back into the streets, and find a spot of sidewalk beneath an otherwise unoccupied gas lamp. All you need is one moment to yourself: you unfold the courier’s note.

 _Irrigo,_ it says. 

There’s only one person who would summon you to the Forgotten Quarter. Tearing the note into tiny pieces, you watch as they flutter gently into the Unterzee. It reminds you of days past, of leaves falling from trees into waters that are blue, not black, and of sunshine and gentle clouds and bright skies and warm but not humid air. The moment catches you off guard, but these memories of distant shores have no place any more. You tuck the thoughts away for another time, when you can afford both complacency and sentiment. 

That time is not now. The Forgotten Quarter calls. When you push off from the wall you hear the whispering again, impossibly, through the palm of your hand. The indecipherable words sting your skin, but you never let the pain show on your face. You’re far too wily for that.

*

You work your way past the small cluster of shops perched against the outer reaches of the Forgotten Quarter. They’ve always seemed to form a clear message, one that proclaims _KEEP AWAY._ This is the bastion of thieves, of devils on the hunt, of half-mad academics seeking to understand the Correspondence. It’s also an attraction for tourists and curiosity-seekers, but those people only scratch the surface of the secrets hidden away deep inside the Quarter. You’ve been to its center. You’ve seen the silent statues of long-dead kings, the silver tree-shaped fountain and the remnants of the palace. You know the way to the Cave of the Nadir, and have never sold its location. You’ve been washed in Irrigo more times than you care to recount, and have felt the touch of madness that accompanies it. 

There, just out of sight, a shadow. Your heartbeat quickens out of nerves, out of the sheer dangerous thrill you feel every time you’re here. The Irrigo glow is a color that can’t be defined—it’s more both the absence and amalgamation of every other color—but just as you’re about to step into the cave’s entrance a strong hand attached to an equally strong arm pulls you back.

“Wait.”

It’s a voice you recognize. Turning, you find yourself face to face with the Revolutionary Firebrand. You consider him a friend, or at least as much a friend as you’ve allowed anybody here to become. The Firebrand, whose name you also know but never use out of respect both for his past as well as for whatever opportunities his future might provide, holds out one gloved hand. In it lie six stones, each marked with curious glyphs, each one gleaming as if it's filled with light, with energy, with purity. The stones remind you of cool, clear running water.

Correspondence Stones. You’ve got the seventh buried safely in a pocket, but intentionally neglect to reveal that fact. Reaching out, you take one of the stones into your hand and turn it over, then over again. When the glyph rests against your palm you feel the same whispers you noticed at the walls once again trying to escape.

“Sir.” There’s something akin to thirst in the Firebrand’s eyes, although it could simply be the Irrigo light dancing there. It’s difficult to tell. You lean forward, much like the cat in the Flit did, and cup your hand round his ear. “The walls in this city speak.”

Without so much as taking a step back, you hear the sudden deep intake of your companion’s breath. “As do the Correspondence Stones.” He looks at you sharply and makes the connection, shrewd understanding written all over his face. Is it the Irrigo again, or is it something else? At least his comment explains away the thickness of the gloves he wears. Not everyone is equally accepting of the Neath's particular brand of discomfort. He had to have been the one to direct you here, the one who sent you on what seemed to be a merry goose chase but has now revealed itself as a scavenger hunt worthy of the most valiant adventurer. 

The only way to be certain is by making the expedition into the cave. Surely the answer lies there. You help yourself to the remaining stones in his hand, scooping them safely away into one of your many hidden pockets. If he truly trusts you, he won’t object. 

As you hoped, your companion proffers no protest. Instead, he shoulders his supply pack and gestures toward the entrance to the Cave of the Nadir. “Do you know what one calls a secret kept by one person alone?” he asks, his voice both low and steady.

You have your own theories, but out of respect for all he’s been through, you let him provide the answer.

“Useless,” he continues. “But a secret shared between two allies becomes something of incredible value.”

Yes, he speaks one fashion of truth. You nod your agreement and make your own elaboration. “That way, the secret can be used, or shared, or sold, or destroyed when the time is right.” As you turn, you do your best to read the expression on his face. Sincerity, you think, reserved though he is. “We”—you indicate both yourself and your companion—"are allies.”

The statement cannot be misconstrued as a question, although the tilt of his head serves as a sort of oblique confirmation. If you’re to enter the cave, there is one piece of information you’ve held to yourself these many months that is finally ready to become a shared secret. If you didn’t consider the Firebrand an ally you would never divulge this information, but you do trust him. He’s been a fine companion. Meek, yes, but primarily on the surface. Idealistic, yes, but never rash. Leaning close, you whisper a single word.

A name, one you’ve not used since your arrival in the Neath.

 _Your_ name. Now the scales are even: should either of you succumb to the Irrigo, to the cave-induced delirium, the chance exists that the other can bring the affected back from the brink. In the Neath, names are currency. Names have value. Names must never be forgotten.

Together, you proceed through the cave toward its center, the urgency of your mission keeping you from too many dalliances. You bypass those lingering in this place, break bread with no one, say little or nothing to one another. The Irrigo washes over you, staining, clinging, seducing you toward madness, but the answers seem close enough to taste. Shortly—or perhaps it’s been hours or days, you can no longer tell—the two of you find yourselves at an abandoned circle flanked by walls of hooded statues. 

There are seven statues, to be precise, each with one empty eye socket. Do the statues represent long-forgotten rulers? Kings? Government officials? Gods? In the Irrigo light, it’s impossible to tell and the carvings leave no relevant clues, save for the familiar fold of their hoods. One thing is certain, however: the Firebrand has found the original resting place of the Correspondence Stones.

You retrieve the Firebrand’s six stones and feel them singing against your palm. The Firebrand takes half, nods to you, and begins to set the stones into the empty sockets. “If only we had the seventh stone,” he says with a slight tinge of regret, “we could see this through to the end.”

Whether your motivation is trust, a sense of camaraderie, or greed, you can’t say and are bound not to remember. When you dig the seventh stone out of safe storage, it vibrates and bounces in your palm. “Quickly,” you tell him, before he realizes that you've been keeping this last gem from him. “We both do this.”

With a swift nod and eyes filled with an almost bitter realization, the Firebrand stands before the final statue. Together, you press the last of the Correspondence Stones into place. 

Nothing happens.

Everything happens. 

The air around you shimmers; beams laden with Irrigo light the space around you. One catches you in the eye, temporarily debilitating you. Another bounces off the shoulder of the statue behind you, taking an ancient stone arm with it. A third strikes the Firebrand in the center of his chest, sending him sprawling. From a place deep inside, you manage to press both palms against the statues. A searing pain covers your arms from the Irrigo burning its way onto or into your very skin. Your mind floods with images, with thoughts, with whispers growing louder and louder until the cacophony is too much and a flash of insight takes hold. Finally, you’ve uncovered—

The last rational thought you have before the Irrigo takes you is that some secrets really are far too terrible to discover, and also far too dangerous to share.

*

Moments or perhaps hours later, the Revolutionary Firebrand crawls to your side and whispers into your ear. Your first instinct is to attack—you’ve heard your share of whispers for the time being—but as your name works its way from his lips into the Irrigo-soaked recesses of your mind, you begin to remember who you are, where you are, and what has happened.

“The Stones?”

“You speak like a true Scholar of the Correspondence.” Is that irony in his voice? He hands you three of the stones, making a small show of tucking the remaining four away into a pocket of his own. “Perhaps it’s safer this way,” he offers without enmity as he brushes debris from the surface of the Anarchist’s Sable he wears. 

You find you must agree, at least for now. 

When he looks down at your wrist, he says nothing about the strange glyphs that seem to have inked their way onto your skin. He simply pats your hand and helps you to stand. The two of you lock eyes: the near-complete destruction of the statues reflects in the brown of his pupils. You also see the echoes of a vague sense of regret, a greater sense of confusion, and a rather overwhelming sense of loss. The time has come to repay his favor. You pull him close and whisper a series of small but valuable secrets into his ear. Some of them would make a zailor blush, others make a spy think twice, and at least one would likely cause the Secular Missionary to storm out of the room in a huff.

The whispered secrets do the trick. For the time being you're even, and for the first time since you’ve known him, the Revolutionary Firebrand looks to be more or less at peace. He thanks you, and the two of you limp away from the Cave of the Nadir. You part ways at the edge of the Forgotten Quarter, fully aware that this separation is merely temporary. Another adventure will surface. They always do.

You travel back to your rooms above the bookshop, more than a little worse for the wear, determined to rest for at least three days. Your sulky bat hangs upside-down from the curtain rod, muttering darkly about the location of its crickets. You're far too exhausted to coddle it tonight, and sink straight into bed. The nightmares don’t let you sleep well, of course, nor do the elusive fragments of the secrets you gained from the statues before their destruction. Were they really the names of the—

No, you can’t think about it any more and in any event, trying to remember details is useless. What you learned in the Cave of the Nadir remains frustratingly out of reach, like the web of a sorrow-spider at the frayed edges of a nightmare. The only answer right now is a full bottle of F.F. Gebrandt’s Superior Laudanum. After you drain the contents, you finally sleep a dark and dreamless sleep that lasts for an entire day and night, as well as most of the following day.

When you waken, the Regretful Soldier snores softly in a chair by your bedside. That you feel notably better is a testament to his healing skills. You’re able to sit up without the throbbing pain between your temples, thankfully, and the Irrigo ink etched onto your wrists in the cave has begun to fade. When you glance through your window to the streets below, a familiar grey cat sits there, grinning up at you, cleaning her teeth with a rat bone. The thankless monster is actually laughing! 

That, you promise yourself, is the last time you act on a secret gleaned from a smug and wily grey cat.


End file.
